Author: Emma CS Me PM
He can't even bring himself to be proactive about the whole damn thing; take those pills all at once and just end it. Hell, right now, he can't even bring himself to take the two-a-day he's meant to.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Artie A. - Words: 1,265 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 6 - Published: 06-24-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6081660
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Written for the glee_angst_meme; the prompt "Artie, "Getting better" is a mystery to me, I have no idea what it means or how to make it happen. Nothing in my head even makes sense anymore. Up, down, left, right, happy, sad, who the fuck knows anymore. I cannot even trust my mind, that used to be the only thing that I had and now it is my enemy. The most sadistic part is its the only enemy that knows every single thing about me." And... okay, yeah, I have a thing for torturing Artie. I admit it, okay?
There's a splotch of mould on the ceiling, curiously shaped a little like Germany. Artie eyes it warily. He remembers hearing on one of those stupid pseudo-news programs something about how certain types of mould IN YOUR OWN HOME! could lead to illness, infection and death.
He looks toward the kitchen. He's not sure what time it is, and his perception of time has been less than normal lately, but he's sure it has to be around four by now. He should be going to take his pills, but he really can't be bothered to move. It's not like those pills do anything anyway; if they did, he doubts he'd just be sitting here staring at the wall.
The pills are meant to make them better, but he doesn't even pretend they do. Somehow everyone chooses to believe it anyway, and he can never bring himself to outright tell the truth. He's a little bit bitter; he feels like they should all be paying enough attention to no that he's still not okay. They all mean well and he knows it, but he doesn't understand how they think they are helping him by giving him pills and then ignoring the rest.
Getting better is a mystery to him; he has no idea what it means or how to accomplish it. That's probably the way it ought to be – after all, he's never been and will never be able to overcome his physical handicap, why should it be different for his mental one? They're all just fooling themselves, trying to prove he still belongs in the world. He used to believe that too, but after a while, he just got tired of lying to himself.
He's not sure this really is about the chair, but if it is, it would sure make things simpler. It's like someone screwed up somewhere; he was never meant to remain here after the crash. It would have been easier if he had just died there like he was meant to – everyone would have grieved for the tiny little boy, always so energetic, never staying still. His parents would have needed each other and become closer in grief, not torn each other apart, blaming them for his 'condition'. The friends he used to have – he had so many when he was a kid – would only have remembered the loud, funny guy who got into that car, not the freakish cripple that returned to school weeks later. His mother would finally have approved of his dancing dream, much too late; she wouldn't be terrified it meant he was queer, like she was when he was a kid (as he knows now), nor would she condemn him for having false hope (which he doesn't even have – hey, clinically depressed) like she does now. Death becomes him, but somehow someone up there missed the memo, and left him here, taking up too much floor space with his wheels, irritating everyone's eyes, sucking up his parents' money with his needs for things like physiotherapy and new chair frames and antidepressants that don't do a thing.
If he tried, those pretty pink pills in the kitchen could finally prove their worth and just end it, like it should have been ended nine years ago. That would be annoying – everyone has invested so much in getting him better, all these years; what would it feel like to have all that proved to be for nothing?
He wonders who would genuinely miss him. He knows his parents have seen him as their burden for years, whose only use is to play "who can be nicer to Cripple Kid?" Maybe Tina would – they broke up toward the start of the year, but it was amicable, so she probably wouldn't be glad (he thinks she's started dating Mike Chang now, but he's not sure, and doesn't have the guts to ask). He's still part of the Glee club, and they would probably miss him, if only because it means they'd have to find a new twelfth member – that's pretty much the only reason he still goes there; making up the numbers, because he can't bear to let them down. He can't bring himself to enjoy it like he used to. They wouldn't miss him though; they'd miss their group. Maybe some of them would miss him – Quinn seems to like him, and Rachel has weirdly become his friend, mostly because he's one of the few people who can actually stand her. He knows he's pretty much Kurt's only male friend ever, and that would suck for him. A whole bunch of people would care if he did it, and that should bother him for than it does.
Why is it his duty to shoulder this, so they'll all be okay? Hey, he's the victimized depressive victim down here, maybe it's their responsibility to help him; not just foist pills on him and rely on everything to be okay?
Okay, that's not fair. The vast majority of them aren't giving him the pills. The vast majority of them aren't even aware that there is a problem that can be treated with pills. Then again, why aren't they? If he's important enough that if/when he kills himself, it's going to be a major problem for them all, shouldn't they be paying enough attention to know that's actually a risk?
An ant crawls across the off-white plaster. It'll just die soon anyway – too far below everyone's eyeline, too much of a nuisance, it will be trampled on and killed. Big fucking surprise and why is he identifying with an ant? Christ he's fucked up. Nothing in his head seems to make sense anymore; up, down, left, right, who the fuck knows anymore. He has no idea where he's going or whether he should or shouldn't be doing so. He shouldn't be like this; shouldn't be under constant siege from his own brain, which would rather just sit here until he starves to death.
He can't even bring himself to be proactive about the whole damn thing; take those pills all at once and just end it. Hell, right now, he can't even bring himself to take the two-a-day he's meant to. He just keeps staring at the wall, knowing he must have a million better things to do, but not knowing what any of them are, or why they are better. He wants to be better, really, he does, but just doesn't think it will happen, and he's too tired to try.
He falls asleep in his chair, knowing and regretting the fact he'll have to wake up.